


No Bed of Roses

by raiining



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Use Your Words, minor Bottom!Crowley, minor Top!Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 16:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19727296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: Aziraphale saw what was going to happen a moment before Crowley did.





	No Bed of Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> I know it's been an age and a half since I posted anything! It was so much fun to hit the "post new work" button on AO3!! I've been writing every day but it's original stuff (the Great Editing Number the Fourth is currently in progress) and I'll drop a line when that is done.
> 
> In the meantime, Good Omens promptly sucked me right in, and the fandom is lovely, so here's my contribution! Hurt/Comfort because I'm terrible.
> 
> Beta'd by the EVER FABULOUS Ralkana. Thank you, Ral!

“Ah, thank you, my son,” Aziraphale heard the elderly man say, two stalls down. “Much obliged.”

“Not a problem,” Crowley replied. Aziraphale looked over to see his friend straightening with a package in his hand. “Didn’t take a—”

Aziraphale saw what was going to happen a moment before Crowley did. He dropped the eggs he was buying and tried to push through the crowd. “Father Forthill,” he shouted. “No!” 

But he was too late. The priest was already completing the Sign of the Cross in Crowley’s face, his lips smiling in serene benediction. “Bless you, my son.”

Crowley, to Aziraphale’s horror, jerked. His face turned white. He started to shake even as his knees gave out, one hand rising to tear at his throat. “Ack!”

Aziraphale tore through the crowd. He caught his friend around the waist before he could fall. “Crowley!”

Father Forthill, holding his parcel, looked concerned. “Goodness gracious me,” he said. “Mr Crowley, are you alright?”

“A- allergies,” Aziraphale managed, getting an arm under his friend’s shoulder. “Thank you, Father. I’ll get him home. He needs… medicine.” Turning sharply, Aziraphale hauled Crowley through the market, almost picking him up in his rush to get them away from the crowd.

“He’s retired,” Aziraphale muttered to Crowley as he pushed through the stalls. “He hasn’t done a sermon in almost ten years. You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine.”

“Can’t… breathe…” Crowley choked.

“You don’t need to breathe,” Aziraphale reminded him, forcing down his own panic. He knew the air Crowley needed wasn’t the air the humans were breathing. The blessing of a priest was a banishing. It would sever Crowley’s connection to the earthly plane. 

And if he died, and went to Hell— 

Aziraphale shook his head as he fought his way through the crowd. Why were there so many people?! Finally they were through the last of the stalls, and the herd thinned. Aziraphale took a sharp left and hurried down the near-empty street as fast as he could with Crowley’s weight dragging him down. Aziraphale risked a glance at his face and saw that his lips were turning blue. 

“We’re almost there,” Aziraphale promised. “We’re almost home.”

The little bungalow he’d bought after leaving London was just down the street. It was a nice bungalow, small, perfect for two, though of course Aziraphale had only bought it with himself in mind. He’d started looking the day after—

He swallowed. No, he wouldn’t think of that night. He’d started looking after he’d found himself unable to forget that his bookshop had burned down and that what he had left was still his, but not his, and he’d decided he’d needed a change. That was the truth, after all. He hadn’t thought Crowley would follow him, not after what had happened, but less than a month after Aziraphale had left London, Crowley had appeared at his door. Even with his heart broken, it had been one of the happiest days of Aziraphale’s life. He’d missed Crowley. He’d ushered him in, and Crowley had just… never left. They’d pushed their way through the awkwardness, and it had been just the two of them together for almost a year now. 

“Please hang on, my dear,” Aziraphale begged. “Hang on.”

Crowley choked and gagged but hung on. Aziraphale threw open the door to the cottage without quite touching it and dragged his friend across the threshold. The instant he did, he felt the warm, welcome energies of their shared home wash over him. 

It wasn’t a heavenly feeling, but it wasn’t hellish, either. It was something they had created together. It was theirs. 

It would ground Crowley. It had to.

And it did, somewhat. The moment they stepped over the threshold, Crowley managed to suck in a breath—gasping and choking, maybe, but still a breath.

“There,” Aziraphale breathed, kicking the door closed. He suppressed a shudder at what would have happened if they didn’t have the bungalow, or if they’d been too far away—what would Hell do if Crowley appeared there, discorporated? No, he wouldn’t think of it. “Let me help you to the sofa.” 

“No,” Crowley choked. “The garden. Get me to the garden.”

Aziraphale cursed himself. “Of course.” Getting his arm more firmly under Crowley, he helped his friend walk through the kitchen and out the back door into the private, walled garden that had become Crowley’s sanctuary. “And look,” he said, giving the sky a quick glare. “The sun’s coming out.”

Somehow Crowley managed a smile. “Wasn’t it… going to rain?”

“Not in the slightest,” Aziraphale said as he helped Crowley down the uneven steps. The sun would have been better for Crowley in his serpent form, but Aziraphale knew Crowley wouldn’t dare transform for weeks now. He’d hold onto his human frame in an effort to tie it more firmly to the Earth. Still, the warm sun would feel as good on his legs as it would on his tail. “Sunshine all day.”

It certainly wouldn’t hurt the garden. The walled space that had been crab grass and weeds before Crowley had arrived was now a verdant explosion of herbs and flowers, and it had rained only the day before.

“Thought we’d... agreed… no miracles,” Crowley managed, his breath coming slightly easier now. “Going to… stay... off… the radar…”

“That hardly counted,” Aziraphale said, dragging Crowley to the patch of clover they’d saved for picnics. “I’d do a real miracle in a heartbeat if I thought it would help.”

“Don’t you… dare,” Crowley managed. “I’ve had enough… divinity… for today.”

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said, laying Crowley down. He had a moment of panic, unsure what to do, and fluttered his hands ineffectually before finally deciding to try and assess the damage. 

“I’m just going to,” he started, and looked Crowley over head to toe. There was nothing obvious with human eyes, but when he added more he could see the faint sparkle of divine light over Crowley’s face and throat.

“I can see it,” Aziraphale said. “Let me just—”

He bit his lip. Just what? He couldn’t miracle the divinity away, that would only be like throwing oil onto a fire, but he had performed his share of temptations for Crowley over the years of their Arrangement. Maybe he could…

Aziraphale tried to draw on his feelings of anger and loss, the fear he’d felt when he'd seen the priest in front of Crowley, the instant certainty he’d had that Father Forthill had holy water, that he would sprinkle it, that Crowley would be gone— 

But it wasn’t working. Aziraphale couldn’t draw on anything occult, not even for this. His fear was based on love, even if it was a love he had done his best to bury, and love came from God.

“I can’t fix this,” Aziraphale gasped. He opened his eyes and stared at his friend. Crowley was breathing easier, but he’d lost his sunglasses somewhere, and his eyes kept fluttering closed. “Crowley!”

“I’ll… be fine,” Crowley managed. “This isn’t… enough to… banish me. I can... take… a little blessing.”

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale said miserably, finally collapsing onto the clover beside his friend. “I should have gotten there faster. I should have done something to stop him. Blast that Father Forthill. Why would he go around showering blessings about, with no thought to the consequences?”

Crowley managed a smile. “He’s a priest, Angel… Pretty sure he wouldn’t care much… if a demon… got hurt by his blessing.”

“He would, and you know he would,” Aziraphale said. Arguing with Crowley was a familiar thing, a non-scary thing. “Father Forthill loves you. He calls you ‘that nice young man Mr Crowley’ and said you could debate the cowl off a cardinal.”

“Did that… once, in 1612, I think it was… or maybe 1621.”

“I’m sure you did, my dear,” Aziraphale said. He swallowed and resisted the urge to brush a hand over Crowley’s face. “How are you feeling? Your lips are a little less purple, at least.”

“I’m better,” Crowley admitted. “Sun’s nice… ‘S bright, though. Where’s my—?” 

“Sunglasses? I’m sorry, my dear, I don’t know. They were lost. Here,” Aziraphale helped Crowley to shift so that Crowley’s head was in his lap. He shielded his head from the sun with one hand. “Is that better?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, wrinkling his nose and shifting slightly.

But it wasn’t. The sun was still leaking around Aziraphale’s meager protection. His hand just wasn’t big enough. Maybe he could— ?

Habit made Aziraphale look over his shoulder, except there was no one watching, was there? And more than that, there was no one Watching. “How about this?” he said, and with a faint shimmer of effort, expanded his wings.

“Oh,” Crowley said, as Aziraphale angled one to keep the sun off his face. “That’sss much better, Angel.” 

“Any time, my dear,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Any time.”

*

They spent the rest of the day in the garden. Crowley recovered slowly, but he did look better by the time the air started to cool. Aziraphale helped him inside and fixed him a snack he didn’t eat, choosing instead to sprawl on the sofa. Aziraphale made tea and they sat until finally it grew dark. Crowley seemed to be breathing easier. He still hitched in pain every time he moved, but his colour was at least back to normal.

“Enough of this sofa, my dear,” Aziraphale said, putting his cup down. “You need to sleep, Crowley. Go to bed.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley said, but his voice was tight. He’d been hunching over more and more as the hours went by. Aziraphale had brought him human medicine for aches and pains, but nothing seemed to be working. “You sleep, just leave me here.”

“I don’t sleep much, you know that,” Aziraphale said. “You’ll be much more comfortable in bed.”

Crowley did something complicated with his face that Aziraphale took to mean he needed help getting up but wasn’t sure how to ask. “I—”

“Silly demon,” Aziraphale said, rising and getting a hand under his arm. “Let’s go.”

Crowley was heavy, but Aziraphale unfurled his wings again. Bracing his shoulders against Crowley’s weight, he beat his wings twice to help him up. 

It worked. Crowley got up off the sofa and on his own two feet. He kept his own wings tucked in as he did, which was probably for the best. They probably hurt as much as the rest of him, the poor dear.

The bedroom was just down the hall. It was the only bed the cottage had come with, and Aziraphale had hardly glanced at it when he’d purchased the place. But like the garden, it had been transformed. The homely bed had been sanded and repainted and what had been an uninspired beige was now a beautiful, soothing blue. The old mattress with its sagging springs was gone and had been replaced by an exquisite, downy contraption that Aziraphale didn’t understand but loved anyway. The covers were the softest dove grey, and there were darker and lighter pillows scattered about, not one the same colour of grey.

Crowley had done it all, of course. He was the only one who used this room. With Aziraphale’s help, he made it to the bed and then sank onto it as though he’d lost every bone in his body.

He was perched awkwardly, though. Aziraphale couldn’t leave him half hanging off of it, so he helped Crowley lift one leg up and then the other. Finally he patted Crowley’s knee. “There you are, my dear. Sleep well.”

He turned to leave, but Crowley’s hand struck out, quick as the snake he was, and grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist before he could walk away. “Wait,” he said, his voice a rasp. “Don’t go.”

Aziraphale froze. He stared at Crowley, but Crowley wasn’t looking at him. He’d clenched his eyes shut and turned his head away. He didn’t take back his words, though.

Aziraphale swallowed. It wasn’t fair of Crowley to ask him to stay, not after everything, but of course demons didn’t play fair.

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. “I... wouldn’t get any rest in the sitting room anyway. Just let me get a book.”

He chose something without looking and turned back to the bed. Heart stammering in his chest, he climbed carefully onto the mattress, not wanting to disturb Crowley. The downy softness was exquisite, molding itself to his human body, but it also tipped him slightly toward Crowley, as if convinced that two people lying side-by-side in this bed ought to be cuddled up next to each other.

Aziraphale put a hand out to brace himself. He swallowed. 

“Sleep, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

*

The book was clearly one of Crowley’s, something he'd picked up from the local library and had left for Aziraphale to find. He thought he was hilarious when he did that, and Aziraphale knew himself weak for Crowley’s laughter, so he hadn’t protested. It was called American Gods and probably heretical, which was likely why Crowley had borrowed it.

It was probably good, but Aziraphale found it hard to concentrate. Crowley was restless. His breathing was steady, for which Aziraphale was grateful, but he twitched and turned in bed, and towards the morning, he started to groan every time he did so. When the sun finally peeked over the horizon, Aziraphale noticed the unhealthy sheen to Crowley’s skin, and he worried.

“Crowley,” he asked. “How are you feeling?” He turned carefully in the bed and put a hand on Crowley’s forehead. He snatched it back almost instantly. Crowley was burning. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Whazza—?” Crowley snuffled, sounding both awake and asleep. “Azzira—?”

“Yes, darling, it’s me,” Aziraphale said. He moved to sit up. “Let me get you some water.”

“No!” Crowley said suddenly. He sat up in bed. His hand lashed out, and he grabbed Aziraphale by the arm. He looked like he was still asleep, his eyes wide and unseeing. “No, don’t go, they’ll find you.”

“What?” Aziraphale gasped. “No, darling, no.” He tried to pat Crowley’s hand, but it was as warm as the rest of him. “No one will see me. I’m only going to the kitchen.”

“Be careful,” Crowley said, too intent. His pupils dilated before constricting again. “They’re coming. They’ll take you. I couldn’t stop them. I tried, but I—” 

“Shh,” Aziraphale hushed. “It’s okay, darling. No one will take me. It’s okay.” He waited until Crowley had settled back in bed and then removed his hand as carefully as he could from Aziraphale’s jacket. Sliding out of bed, he hurried only so far as the ensuite bathroom. It was cramped but quaint, and there was a glass on the sink. “Here,” he said, crossing back to the bed. “Drink this.”

Crowley looked exhausted again. His eyes, still unseeing, drooped closed. “Aziraphale,” he murmured.

“Yes, darling,” Aziraphale said. “I have something for you. Water. Drink it, please.”

Crowley fumbled for the glass. “Jus’ water?” he said. “‘S’not blessed? You know I’d drink holy water for you.”

Aziraphale forgot how to speak.

“Of—of course it’s not poison,” he managed, finally. “Of course it’s not. It’s just water. It’s for you. Please drink it, Crowley, you’re burning up.”

“Heh, ‘s cause I’m a demon,” Crowley muttered, tipping the glass back against his lips and getting at least half of it down his shirt. “I burn really well. Burned all the way Down. I’m still burning, burning for love…”

He was clearly delirious. “Shh, my darling,” Aziraphale said, properly worried now. “Sleep.”

He waited in the bedroom he was sure until Crowley was under again, and then hurried to the sitting room.

“Oh dear,” he muttered. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

He’d left the majority of his books at the bookshop, which was locked and warded with the taxes paid two centuries in advance, but he'd brought a few of his favourites here, and a few others he'd felt might be useful. He made a beeline for them now. 

Angeles e Demons, only a second edition, borrowed it from the Vatican sometime in the fourteenth century. Dante’s Inferno—first edition, signed, a gift from Crowley, actually. He also had Pope John the Third’s De Angelorum Deorumque and a more modern text in Arabic that he’d enjoyed quite a bit. He knew most of them mentioned blessings that would work against demons, but Aziraphale was pretty sure none of them mentioned what to do with the demon once it’d been blessed. 

He read through them again anyway, checking for some subtle line he might have missed, but there was nothing. No one seemed concerned about healing demons.

Because of course, who would be? Except it was Crowley, and Aziraphale was quite certain he couldn’t live without him.

In desperation, Aziraphale turned to the internet. Crowley had bought a beautiful, shiny laptop that looked as though it could rival the Bentley for speed. He’d never managed to use it before, but he opened it carefully now and picked out the search function by virtue of asking it very nicely. He used two fingers to type ‘how to heal a demon.’

The results proved mixed at best. There were several awful Christian websites and a few darling pagan recipes, but most of the ingredients would burn Crowley, not help him. Finally he fixed on a sage-and-peppermint infused massage oil that looked like it wouldn’t hurt. 

He picked the leaves from the garden outside, feeling that could only increase their power, and found the olive oil under the sink. He used a saucepan and followed the instructions as well as he could, but there was a reason Crowley did most of the cooking. Aziraphale wouldn’t risk a miracle or even a prayer on something that was going to touch Crowley, though, so he made do.

Crowley was muttering to himself and turning over in bed when Aziraphale came back in. He was soaked with sweat, his hair sticking up every which way. Aziraphale could feel the heat coming off him from across the room. He wondered if Crowley’s body were channeling Hell to wash away the Heaven, or if it was just the fever.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Aziraphale said, leaving the oil on the counter to cool before crossing to the bed. “Crowley, wake up.”

“Azz... Aziraphale,” Crowley said, startling awake. “You’re here. You’re—”

“Yes, my dear, of course,” Aziraphale soothed him. He managed to get another glass of water into him, and then frowned at Crowley’s shirt. Yesterday it had been soft and black and velvety, but today it was wrinkled and soaked and ruined. “Darling,” he said, “let’s get this off you. I should have taken your things off last night, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Heh,” Crowley chuckled, flopping bonelessly again. “I should have known you… couldn’t wait… to get your hands on me.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips together. Crowley was delirious, he didn’t remember— “None of that now,” Aziraphale said, busying himself by starting on the buttons. “Here, let me.”

“No!” Crowley said suddenly, pushing Aziraphale away. He did it with demonic strength, too, managing to shove Aziraphale not only back, but off the bed and across the room. Aziraphale hit the edge of the dresser and yelped. That hurt!

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, shocked. “What—?”

But Crowley was sitting up in bed looking panicked. His eyes were wide, and for the first time that morning, they looked focused. 

“You can’t,” Crowley gasped. He was holding the edges of his shirt closed with both hands, even though Aziraphale hadn’t managed to get more than one button undone.“No, Angel!”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered. He hadn’t been thinking. He knew Crowley loathed his touch, he shouldn’t have—

“I’m not worth it,” Crowley gasped.

Aziraphale felt his head come up of its own accord. “What?” he asked. “What did you say?”

But Crowley was looking exhausted again. “I’m not— You’re too important— They’ll—” He flopped back against the bed.

Aziraphale knew he shouldn’t push this. He did. But it had been a year. “What will they do?” he asked sharply.

Crowley’s eyes had fluttered closed. “Not worth it. Not—” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said sternly. He took a step towards the bed. “What will they do?”

Crowley looked scared again. “They’ll take your wings,” he whispered. “You’ll Fall.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. He felt his heart, which was already broken in two, promptly shatter. “No. Oh, Crowley, no—”

Unthinking, he took another step. Immediately Crowley’s eyes shot open and he pulled away again, crowding himself against the headboard and drawing his knees up to his chest. “Don’t touch me!”

His eyes darted to the window. Aziraphale took a step back and raised both hands in the air. “I won’t,” he promised. “Darling, I won’t. I’m sorry.”

Crowley shuddered. It was a full body thing. “Don’t call me that,” he muttered. “Makes it harder.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, swallowing heavily. He’d never suspected— Did that mean—? No, there wasn’t time for this now. “We still need to get those wet things off of you,” he said firmly. “Can you remove your shirt yourself?”

“Yeah,” Crowley muttered, but it was a poor effort. He sounded shattered. “Sure.”

In the end, Aziraphale had to help him a little. Crowley still flinched and looked frightened whenever Aziraphale got close, but it was a more confused sort of frightened, and Aziraphale pushed through it. Between the two of them they managed to get Crowley out of his damp things and into a soft grey shirt that was actually one of Aziraphale’s, purchased by Crowley on something he called ‘The Amazon.’

“I didn’t mean it,” Crowley muttered when they were done, trying and failing to grab Aziraphale’s arm again. He sounded half asleep already. “I like when you call me ‘darling.’ ‘S nice.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “O-of course,” he said. “Just sleep.” He gave into the urge to smooth a lock of red hair away from Crowley’s face, and waited until Crowley’s breathing had evened out. When he was sure that Crowley was asleep, Aziraphale turned and walked slowly back to the sitting room.

The sofa very promptly moved across the room to catch him when his knees gave out. Aziraphale leaned forward and put his head between his legs. Could angels hyperventilate? He felt like he needed to hyperventilate.

A year. It had been a year. And more than a year—sixty years, at least, maybe a century. Maybe more? Aziraphale hadn’t been able to pinpoint the moment he’d fallen in love with Crowley, but he knew to the second the moment he’d ruined it. 

It had been a week or so after the non-end of the world. They’d been in Aziraphale’s bookshop, just back from lunch. Aziraphale had spent the week vacillating between joy at the world, joy at Crowley, and absolute love that everything he cared about was still alive and well. Slowly the knowledge had percolated in him that Crowley was right, that they were on their own side now, and he didn’t have to worry about Crowley getting into trouble for speaking to him.

Speaking, and drinking, and living, and— 

He’d been greedy. One of the sins he’d done his best to avoid, except why bother, now? Why not be greedy? And so, in perfect joy, he’d taken Crowley by the collar, and leaned in, and kissed him. 

And it had been perfect. For a whole half a second, it had been perfect, and Aziraphale had known in that moment that Crowley loved him, that he, Aziraphale, had been the one holding them back, afraid of going too fast, afraid of what would happen to both of them if he gave in, until Crowley had hissed in his face and flung himself across the room as though he’d been burned. 

“What,” he’d croaked, raising a hand to his lips. “What the Adam, Angel?”

Aziraphale remembered staring at him. “Really?” he’d said. “You’re cursing by the Antichrist now?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Crowley had said harshly. “You can’t— I can’t— No, Angel!”

Aziraphale had gone cold. “Yes, of course,” he’d babbled. All of the certainly he’d felt had melted instantly, evaporating into the ether and disappearing forever. He had no idea why he’d ever thought that Crowley might have wanted him. They were friends, not even friends, they were colleagues. Sworn enemies! Crowley probably didn’t even like him— “Right. You’re right, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You weren’t,” Crowley had growled. He’d given Aziraphale a look of deep disgust. “I’ll just— go. Get this under control. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he’d left.

Aziraphale had collapsed at his desk, the evanescent feeling within him gone as though it had never been. Instead he’d carried Crowley’s look of horror with him ever since.

He’d started looking for properties that night, sure he couldn’t live in London and see Crowley regularly with that image seared behind his eyes. It hadn’t been the first time he’d fled the demon, after all, and he'd felt rather proud that he wasn’t crossing to the continent this time. South Downs was hardly even outside London, as these things went. He could visit his bookshop as often as he liked.

He managed to avoid seeing Crowley before he left. It was for the best. Crowley probably didn’t even want to see him. He did leave a note, though. Better for him to know where Aziraphale was so he could avoid him, instead of bumping into him one day on the street. Not that Crowley would ever be in South Downs, but...

But then barely a month later, he had been. He had appeared at Aziraphale’s door, his hand raised to knock, a funny half-sad, half-angry, half-desperate look on his face, and despite everything Aziraphale had smiled to see him, and let him in. He’d missed Crowley.

They were friends, Aziraphale relearned that day. He hadn’t misjudged that part. It was just… all the rest… that he’d gotten wrong.

Except maybe he hadn’t. 

Aziraphale looked up from the sofa and stared in the direction of the bedroom. Crowley thought Aziraphale would Fall. Was that just the fever talking? Or was that why he’d pulled back, that day in the bookshop? 

Did that mean Crowley could maybe—?

A groan came from the bedroom. Aziraphale threw himself off the sofa and down the hallway.

Crowley had rolled over in bed. His forehead was glistening, and his eyes were squeezed shut. His hands were tightening rhythmically at his sides.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Aziraphale said. He couldn’t blame Crowley. He’d looked so afraid. Whatever it was he had tangled up inside his head, he clearly meant well by it. They were simply going to have to have a conversation when Crowley was feeling better. “Let me get you a cool cloth.”

The cool cloth helped. Aziraphale managed to get several more glasses of water into Crowley, and tried some mild tea with lemon and honey, and then a few hours later, Crowley’s fever finally broke. The sun was high in the sky by then. It shone strong through the window as Crowley blinked his eyes awake.

“Azira—?” he croaked, and then swallowed. “Water?”

“Right here,” Aziraphale said. He got an arm under Crowley’s shoulders and helped him sit up. “There you go.”

Crowley drank the entire glass. He was trembling slightly, but the awful look of delirium was gone from his eyes. He let the glass go with a sigh. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale murmured, letting Crowley sag against his shoulder. He wanted to pull him close and make him promise never to scare him like that again, but he wasn’t sure how much Crowley remembered and didn’t want to startle him. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, I think,” Crowley muttered, pushing his nose into Aziraphale’s collar for a moment before pulling it back again. “I hurt like the dev— Like the ho— Like, like Adam.” He screwed up his face. “No, that doesn’t make any sense.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Like Adam after an all-night quidditch game maybe, or whatever it is, that game is he plays.” 

“Hm,” Crowley said, his eyes fluttering closed again. “He text again?”

“A couple of days ago,” Aziraphale said. He brushed another lock of hair from Crowley’s head. “He’s enjoying Year Nine.”

Crowley nodded. His eyes drifted shut, and Aziraphale thought he’d dozed off again, but then he made a face and they opened. “Ugh,” he said, shifting slightly. “I feel disgusting.”

“You had rather a restless night,” Aziraphale agreed. He pressed the skin of his wrist against Crowley’s forehead. “No fever now, at least. Do you want to take a bath?”

“Oh, yesss pleassse,” Crowley hissed. He struggled to sit up, and seemed to notice only then that he was wearing Aziraphale’s shirt. He tugged at it and looked up. “Angel?”

“You did it all yourself,” Aziraphale said, not quite meeting his eyes. “I barely helped, my dear.”

“... Okay,” Crowley said. He shook his head and huffed out a breath. “I mean, of course. Sorry. Don’t mind me. I feel like crap.”

Aziraphale licked his lips, but it wasn’t time to have this particular conversation. “I know, my dear,” he said instead. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

He needed to use his wings again to lift Crowley. The demon didn’t say anything, but Aziraphale caught a few glances out of the corner of his eye—some wistful, some longing. Aziraphale didn’t comment as he helped Crowley shuffle to the bathroom, and then he put his wings away to fit through the doorway. Leaving Crowley leaning against the sink, Aziraphale bent to turn on the tub.

“There you go,” he said once the water was right, “not too hot, not too cold, either. Oh, and I found a recipe on the internet for healing bath herbs. I’ll just nip out to the garden.”

Crowley stared at him. “You went on the internet?”

“I wasn’t sure what else to do,” Aziraphale said, feeling flustered. “You were quite delirious, my dear, and human medicine didn’t seem to be working.”

“I was—? Oh,” Crowley said. He swallowed, looking discomfited. “What did I— I didn’t say anything, did I?”

“Oh, nothing of importance,” Aziraphale assured him, feeling a twinge in his chest. “I’ll be right back.”

It didn’t take him long to hurry to the garden with a pair of scissors. Thanks to Crowley’s green touch, they had everything the article had suggested, lavender and cucumber and ginger and all. He took a little of everything and used the mortar and pestle in the kitchen to mash it together, then carried it back to the bathroom.

Crowley was already undressed and in the tub when Aziraphale got back. The bubbles Aziraphale had added were big and fluffy, and obscured everything. That didn’t stop Aziraphale from blushing, or Crowley from looking away, embarrassed.

“Sorry, Angel,” he muttered. “I’m fine, you don’t have to—”

“You’re not fine, you're still sweating,” Aziraphale admonished gently. He pulled a chair from the bedroom with his empty hand and placed it near the door to the ensuite. “You just relax and take your time. I’ll sit here and finish my book.”

“I…. well… okay,” Crowley said. He peered at Aziraphale. “What’s that in your hand?”

“Oh, right,” Azriaphale said, and leaned over to sprinkle the mashed bits of garden into the bath. “It’s one of those recipes I found.”

“On the internet,” Crowley said, with the ghost of his usual smirk.

“And very helpful it was,” Aziraphale said primly. He dusted his hands off and retired back to his chair. “Take your time. I’ll be right here.”

“Mm’kay,” Crowley said, closing his eyes again and leaning back. One of the very few, discreet miracles Crowley had performed when they’d arrived had been extending the bath so it was long enough to fit him. “I’ll do that.”

Aziraphale did as he said and made himself scarce. He did keep half an eye on Crowley, worried the demon would fall too deeply asleep and drown, but Crowley merely tipped his head back and relaxed, occasionally dipping down to submerge his face before laying back, again. 

“I think that’s enough,” Aziraphale said finally, when the bubbles had mostly deflated and the room had taken on a slight chill. “Wouldn’t want you to get stiff.”

“Mmdontwannamove,” Crowley mumbled, half his chin under water.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but find it adorable. “I’m sorry, dearest; what was that?”

“Ughh,” Crowley said, but did manage to sit up in the bath. “I said, fine.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Very well. Do you need some help?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Crowley said. He leaned forward and unplugged the bath, then reached for the towel Aziraphale had placed close at hand. “Just give me a minute.”

Aziraphale politely turned and faced away, but he upended the chair turning too fast when he heard a muffled curse and a splash.

“What—?!” he asked, already starting forward.

Crowley had clearly slipped. His wings were out, holding him steady, and he had one hand on the towel and the other on the wall. “I’m okay,” he said.

Aziraphale tutted and crossed over to him. “My dear boy, the towel is not the most important thing right now. Here, hang onto me.”

Crowley made a face but took his arm. Between the two of them they got Crowley—and his towel—out of the tub and into the bedroom.

“Wait before laying back down again, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll just change the sheets.”

Even without the help of a miracle, it didn’t take long. Crowley had beautiful, fluffy sheets stacked neatly in the closet, and Aziraphale worked fast. “There you go,” he said, when all was done. “In you go.”

Crowley looked exhausted again, but also mulish. “I don’t want to, I’ve spent the past day in bed.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Is it time to remind you of the 18th century?”

“Ugh,” Crowley said, but he did finally shuffle forward. His wings were still out, and they flopped to either side of him as he plopped face-first. “Remind me never to be nice to a priest ever again.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Aziraphale murmured. He took a hesitant step forward and put a hand on Crowley’s leg. “What hurts the most?”

“Everything,” Crowley groaned, but then wiggled experimentally. “M’ back’s the worst,” he admitted.

“Very well then,” Aziraphale said, checking that the oil he’d made earlier was still there. “I have just the thing.”

It felt decadent in the extreme, but Aziraphale didn’t let himself hesitate. He picked up the bottle of oil and climbed onto the bed, settling himself to either side of Crowley’s legs, just below the towel.

“Angel…” Crowley hissed warningly, but Aziraphale quieted him by settling a hand on his back, right between his wings.

“Hush,” Aziraphale said. “This is another thing I found on the internet.” He poured some of the oil into his hands and rubbed them together—the oil had cooled to room temperature—and then pressed them to Crowley’s back. 

“Ohhh,” Crowley groaned, seemingly unable to help himself. “Oh, Angel.”

“Mmm?”

“You… shouldn’t…” he slurred, and then hissed when Aziraphale found a tender spot. “Oh, yes, right there.”

Aziraphale added more oil. “Here?”

“Yesss,” Crowley hissed. “Ugh. Bless me.”

“You’ve already done that once this week,” Aziraphale murmured. “I don’t advise trying it again.”

“Right, yeah,” Crowley said. He turned his head at Aziraphale’s gentle direction and moaned as Aziraphale worked the muscles that connected his shoulder blade to his neck. “Ugggg.”

It was easy to keep going with such encouragement. Aziraphale worked in silence until Crowley seemed much more relaxed. Girding his courage, he took a deep breath.

“I may have lied, earlier,” Aziraphale said. He enunciated the words slowly, running his hands over Crowley’s back as he did. “When I said you didn’t say anything important during the night.”

Crowley twitched once before going perfectly still. “Oh?” 

Aziraphale rubbed circles into his back. “Yes,” he said. “You had a rather… extreme reaction… when I tried to help you change your shirt.”

Crowley sighed. It seemed to rise from the bottom of his feet. “Aziraphale...”

“And it made me think back,” Aziraphale ploughed on, determined now, “to that afternoon in London.”

“We had a lot of afternoons in London,” Crowley said, desperately.

“I mean the one where I kissed you,” Aziraphale said firmly.

He could feel Crowley shudder. He turned his head back into the pillow. “I don’t think we need to talk about that.”

“You know,” Aziraphale said, conversationally, “I rather think we do.” He paused. “I really thought you were disgusted by me, that day.”

“What?” Crowley exclaimed. He pushed himself up on his forearms and tried to turn as best he could with Aziraphale sitting on his legs. “Angel. How on Earth could you have thought that of me?”

Aziraphale avoided his eyes by wiping the excess oil on Crowley’s back. “Well, I did own a bookshop in Soho, my dear. There were quite a few… insinuations. I never disputed them. You never brought them up, but—”

“Angel,” Crowley said, his voice low. “That’s not— I could never. That’s not why.”

“Then why?” Aziraphale asked. He managed to look up and meet Crowley’s eyes. He’d meant the question to sound challenging, but it came out broken instead. “Why did you push me away?”

“I thought you knew,” Crowley said. He blinked several times. “You used to have Heaven. It used to be there for you, if I got too much demon on you, if you started to Fall—Heaven would have fought for your soul. But now—”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Now?”

Crowley shook his head. “Don’t play dumb, Angel, it doesn’t suit you.” He put his head back on the bed. “Heaven and Hell may hate us both, but that doesn’t mean Hell wouldn’t snatch you up in a human heartbeat if they had the chance. You’re a Principality, you’re special. Without Heaven to back you up, it was too much of a risk. Some fling with me, it’s not worth it.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He leaned forward slightly, letting his hands run down Crowley’s back. Crowley shivered. “It wouldn’t be a fling. Why are you so certain that loving you would make me Fall?”

Crowley’s voice was half muffled by the pillow. “Because I’m a demon. I’ll corrupt you.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, my dear,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley pushed himself up again. “Oh, yeah?” he challenged. “Is that what you think? You don’t know anything, Angel. You don’t know how easy—” He cut himself off.

Aziraphale swallowed. He shifted his weight off Crowley’s legs, then turned and managed to settle himself cross legged on the bed beside him. “Then tell me.”

Crowley let out a breath. His black wings twitched once before settling. “I Fell because of love. We all did. We loved Lucifer. He was the best of us, you know? The Shining One. I didn’t love him lots, not like Beezlebub and the others, but I still loved him.”

Aziraphale touched the skin of his back again. “Of course you did, but, darling, love isn’t a sin.”

“Isn’t it?” Crowley challenged. “Love for Lucifer took us from Her. Love led to questioning, questioning led to rebelling, rebelling led to—” His wings twitched again.

Aziraphale touched them gently, running a hand down one pinion. “Rebelling led to the Fall.”

“It burned, Angel,” Crowley said. His eyes looked haunted. “In the bottom of my heart, it’s still burning. It hurts. I’d do anything to spare you from that.”

“That, that putting my feelings above your own?” Aziraphale said gently. “That’s love.”

“Yeah, so what,” Crowley growled. “I can love. It’s the price I paid, so it’s mine to do what I want with. Of course I love you. I’ve loved you for thousands of years.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. It felt like his heart was breaking all over again, except this time it was the opposite, wasn’t it? It was knitting itself back together. “Oh, my darling. I love you, too.”

Crowley’s breath caught. “No,” he said. “You can’t.”

Aziraphale held his gaze. He found himself smiling. “Yes, I can. I do. For quite a while now. I’m not sure exactly when, but—”

“No, no, no,” Crowley said. He started to get up. “I knew it was a mistake to come here, I knew it. I thought it was just a kiss, an overflow of the moment, you Angels and your evanescence and joy, but I didn’t think—” He turned, making as though to get out of bed.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted. “What do you think you're doing?”

Crowley stopped moving and stared at him. “Leaving. Obviously.”

Aziraphale ignored the rapid beating of his heart in his chest. “Why?”

“For you,” Crowley exclaimed. “I know I’m supposed to be a selfish bastard, and I am, most of the time, but for Heaven’s sake, Angel. You know I’d do anything for you.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Even leave.”

Crowley clamped his eyes shut. “Yes,” he said harshly. “Even that.” 

He made to get up again, but Aziraphale put a hand on his back. “Lucky for us both that you don’t have to, then.”

Crowley stilled. “What?”

Aziraphale looked at him steadily. “I wasn’t lying, Crowley. I am in love with you, and more than that, I have been for a while. And look—” He spared a flicker of attention, and his wings once again unfurled. They were as they always were, downy soft. “No taint.”

Crowley swallowed. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am.”

“I used to check, you know,” Crowely murmured, his eyes caught on Aziraphale’s wings. “When I could. If I squinted sideways sometimes I could see them, and I’d check, just to make sure.”

Aziraphale thought back over the centuries. “Wait a minute, is that why you ran away that day in Tokyo?”

Crowley bit his lip and looked away. “I thought— It was just a trick of the light.”

“You almost kissed me that day,” Aziraphale said, realization dawning. “I thought so. I mean, I tried not to think so, because if Hell found out, you were done for, and I pretty well managed to convince myself it wasn’t like that, but you actually almost did, didn’t you? You almost kissed me that day.”

Crowley hadn’t looked up. “You don’t know what you look like,” he said, his voice low, “when you’re eating, when you find something you like. You light up like a, like a—” he laughed quietly. “Well, like an angel.”

“You brought me sushi,” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley swallowed. His eyes finally flickered to Aziraphale’s. “I had a feeling you’d enjoy it.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I did, my dear boy. I most certainly did.” He raised a hand and pressed it against Crowley’s chest, where Crowley had turned to face him. “I loved you in that moment, and in so many moments thereafter. I’ve been properly in love with you for some time now, and I’m fine. See?” He looked over his shoulder at his wings. “I’m fine.”

Crowley licked his lips again. “You’re fine for now, but what if—?”

“There’s nothing wrong with love,” Aziraphale murmured quietly, leaning in. “Nothing at all.”

As gently as he could, Aziraphale kissed Crowley. It was like and unlike their first kiss, because it was again a simple brush of the lips, but Aziraphale was so much more hesitant this time.

Also unlike, because a half a second later, Crowley melted.

He sagged into the bedsheets and dragged Aziraphale with him, somehow getting both of his hands on Aziraphale’s face and pulling him down on top of him. “Oh!” Aziraphale said, delighted and surprised. “Oh!”

Crowley didn’t seem to notice—he was kissing him again, blindly, lifting his head off the bed to chase at his lips. “Aziraphale,” he choked. “Angel.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale echoed, pressing him more firmly against the covers. “Sweetheart.”

Crowley shut his eyes and pressed himself closer. Aziraphale met him desperate kiss for desperate kiss. 

He lost track of time. What was time, anyway? What point did time have, if it wasn’t spent pressing Crowley down, capturing the feel of his mouth, feeling the heat of his body and the gentle flutter of his wings? 

Meaningless.

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, at some point, pressing kisses to Aziraphale’s lips, cheeks, and chin. “Angel, please, don’t give this to me and then take it away. Don’t do that to me. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Never,” Aziraphale promised, kissing him back. “Never. You’re mine now.”

Crowley shuddered. “Yes,” he gasped. “Yours. Not Hell’s, not Lucifer’s, not anyone else’s. Yours.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale growled, and bit him on his bottom lip. “And you’ve got quite a lot of worry to make up for.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley breathed. “I am. I’ll do anything.”

“Yes, you will,” Aziraphale said, an idea slowly coming to him, “and I know exactly what.”

“What, Angel?”

Aziraphale put a hand between them. “I want you to stay there, right there, and watch me. I want you to know that nothing I do to you, or feel for you, could ever cause me to Fall.”

“I—” Crowley started, and then swallowed. “O-okay.”

Aziraphale pressed a firm kiss to his lips, and then sat up. He was straddling Crowley on the bed, and somehow Crowley’s towel had gone missing in all the excitement. “Mm,” he said, enjoying his position. “Yes, this is quite nice. Reminds me of a certain statue I know.”

Crowley squirmed. “Wrong one’s on top, then.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said, and brushed a hand down Crowley’s chest. Crowley shivered. “I think you’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

Crowley let out a sound Aziraphale knew he’d deny ever making. “Angel.”

“Look at me,” Aziraphale told him. He waited until Crowley’s eyes had refocused on him, and then spread his wings a little wider. He felt the hitch in Crowley’s breathing. “Watch.”

It didn’t take long to shimmer down Crowley’s body. Aziraphale was still fully dressed, while Crowley was naked, and it was easy to trail his hands down Crowley’s stomach, past his hips, and down his thighs. Crowley had made an Effort, as he often did. He'd said it helped his pants sit right, the one time they’d both been drunk and Aziraphale had dared to ask him. 

The Effort stirred now, invitingly, and Aziraphale lowered his head to nudge at it.

“Oh!” Crowley said, his breath hitching again. “Oh, God.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale murmured, using both hands to spread Crowley’s legs, to give the Effort some room. “She created Love, my darling. This is all part of worship of Her.”

He fit his mouth around the Effort. Crowley's hips jumped off the bed, and Aziraphale beat his wings once to hold himself steady. It’d been a while since he’d done this, and he didn’t want to take Crowley too far. Aziraphale still had somewhat of a gag reflex. 

Silly human bodies, but so, so lovely, too.

“Darling,” he whispered, pulling off and ghosting his breath over Crowley. “Love.”

Crowley keened. 

Aziraphale took him into his mouth again. It was better than anything he’d ever done with humans, because this was Crowley, and Aziraphale loved him, had loved him, for so very long, and oh—how long he’d wanted to do this!

Time spiralled away from them. Aziraphale knew only that Crowley came, that he’d licked and sucked and pressed his fingers into lots of interesting places, and then Crowley had come again. 

For himself, he hadn’t bothered making an Effort, so his clothes were clean. Crowley, meanwhile, was a sweating, shaking mess, and looked all the better for it.

“Sweetheart,” Aziraphale murmured, kissing his way up Crowley’s body again. “Darling.”

Crowley had his head tipped back onto the covers, his chest heaving. His wings were still out, beautiful black feathers spread across the bed, and Aziraphale let his fingers run along them, feeling every joint. 

“Angel,” Crowley managed, when Aziraphale had made it to his lips, and kissed them again. “Aziraphale. That was—”

“It was,” Aziraphale agreed. He looked over his shoulder, at his still-downy wings, “and see? Love is not the crime.”

Crowley shuddered. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, pulling him closer, burying his face against Aziraphale’s chest. “Then what is?” 

Aziraphale kissed his head. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I’m not sure I can know, but I do know that it’s not this.”

“Okay,” Crowley said finally, tipping his head back again. “Okay.”

His lips were asking for a kiss, so Aziraphale kissed them. They did that for a while, and then Aziraphale ran a hand over Crowley’s hair. 

“How are you feeling?”

Crowley choked on his laugh. “Feeling? Like I could fly to the moon.”

Aziraphale smiled and kissed him again. “Maybe tomorrow. Is your breathing alright? No fever?”

“Not from that,” Crowley said. “I think I’m finally over that blessing.”

“Well, I most certainly never want you to go through that again,” Aziraphale said, holding him tight, “but I must confess, my love, that I feel rather thankful towards Father Forthill.”

“I’ll send him a fruit basket,” Crowley muttered, and then rolled them over in bed. “Now, Angel,” he said, his smile loving and wide and wicked. “My turn.”

~ The End

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points for anyone who caught the "Father Forthill" name drop. There is already one FANTASTIC Harry Dresden/Good Omens mashup (https://archiveofourown.org/works/92451) and if anyone wants to write me another, I would gladly worship you.


End file.
